


Infinite Love

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly, Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, Gen, M/M, S4 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 19:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10623561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: Something's very wrong. Sherlock and John have reverted to being 'just friends', as if the love that had been growing between them had never happened. Molly determines to work out why, and to put their relationship right.





	

Some things never change. A call from 221B Baker Street still has Molly dashing across town to be there, no questions asked. And, every time, when she gets there, she finds herself hesitating on the pavement. She’s read John’s blog; she knows what that means. Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair, according to Sherlock, apparently. He was right then, and he’s right now, even if this love affair isn’t quite the one she’d hoped for. 

And so she hesitates. Silly, really, when she has the front door keys in her hand. She loves Sherlock and he loves her. Sillier still when he won’t even in - not tonight, of all nights.

Out of the corner of her eye, inside Speedy’s she sees Amy, Mr Chatterjee’s new waitress, repeatedly looking up from her closing up operations to glance her way, and a warm little ball of pride suffuses her. Amy thinks Molly’s Sherlock’s girlfriend and, for a moment, Molly allows herself to pretend it’s true. She stands up straighter, tosses her head so that he ponytail bounces in a Confident Girlfriend kind of way and she smiles - because that’s what happy people do, right? They smile. Then she steps up to the door, puts the key in the lock and lets herself in.

Being in the hallway, seeing the staircase up to the flat, never fails to make her heart flutter. The thrill she felt the first time she stood here has never quite faded, the thrill and near-terror of knowing that within seconds she’d see him. She ought to think about the heartache that followed - the horrible, horrible things he said - but instead she remembers him leaning in to kiss her cheek, and the softened, deep rumble of his voice. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper. She closes her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by what might have been.

“Molly?”

Molly starts and sees Mrs Hudson, on the landing overhead.

“Yes. Hello.” Molly gives her a self-conscious wave. “You, uh, said you needed me?”

“That’s right, dear-” Mrs Hudson is saying when something inside the flat crashes, something made of glass, by the sound of it.

Mrs Hudson gasps and rushes back inside. Molly runs up the stairs to follow.

They find Rosie in the kitchen, the shattered debris of one of Sherlock’s experiments glittering about her feet. There’s no hesitating now. Molly swoops in and lifts her clear of danger, and settles her on her hip. Rosie starts to cry, but Molly shushes her, rocking her and she sings the little song that always soothed her in her childhood, and eventually Rosie’s wailing subsides into hiccoughing sniffles. The little girl rubs her runny nose into the front of Molly’s new jacket, smearing snot and tears everywhere but Molly just kisses the top of her head.

“Look at you,” Mrs Hudson says. “You’re a natural. One day, you’re going to make a wonderful mum.”

Too many emotions crowd in all at once. Molly shakes her head and laughs - too loud, too high. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Got to find a man first …” She trails off. Stating the obvious has always been a failing of hers, as Sherlock has so often pointed out.

Mrs Hudson squeezes her eyes shut and presses her lips into a flat, sad line. Molly’s afraid she’s going to say something nice now, or apologize, and she’s not sure she can face going through that. But when Mrs Hudson opens her eyes again, it’s with a bright, purposeful smile.

“I should get Rosie to bed,” she says. “Should have done it an hour ago, but she wouldn’t slow down, and at my age, I couldn’t keep up. Racing here, racing there. Touching Sherlock’s things. You know what he’s like about his things …”

She looks exhausted and every one of her seventy-something years and Molly’s heart goes out to her.

“I’ll give you a hand,” she says and gives Rosie a little squeeze. “Bath time for you, Miss Watson, and, if you’re good, I’ll read you a story. Would you like that?”

“Prince Charming!” Rosie says, eyes alight at the prospect, but Mrs Hudson makes uncertain noises.

“But you were going out,” she says. “Look at you - dressed up so prettily.”

It’s true. Molly’s wearing the new dress she bought earlier. It’s a little shorter than she usually wears, a little tighter and a lot more red, but her her Nice Girl look hasn’t been working for her, and brazen display didn’t do Irene Adler any harm, did it? But now that Molly’s here, in 221B, the sad truth is, there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

“It was just a drink with the girls from work,” she says. “Nothing special.”

A too-quiet pause follows, during which Mrs Hudson’s eyes dart about Molly’s face. “You’re a lovely young woman,” she says at last. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

Molly always feels awkward when people compliment her. She’s no idea how to respond, so she laughs.

“A lovely young woman who’s been neglecting the gym,” she says. “I don’t think my arms are strong enough to hold Rosie like this much longer. Let’s get her in the bath.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Rosie is washed, in her pyjamas and in bed. Prince Charming has awoken Sleeping Beauty with a kiss; they’ve married and are living Happily Ever After. Molly sits by Rosie’s bedside and watches over her as she drifts off to sleep. She’s a beautiful child, far more like John than Mary now. Molly’s sure Sherlock must be happy about that. Mary was an aberration. She filled a painful gap in John’s life, which was good, but he never loved her like he loved Sherlock. And nowhere near as much as Sherlock loves John.

When Molly’s sure moving won’t disturb Rosie, she tiptoes out of the room. 

Mrs Hudson is sitting in John’s chair, by the fire. On the table beside it, there’s a pot of tea and cake and biscuits on a blue and white plate.

“Come and sit down, dear,” she says, gesturing for Molly to take Sherlock’s.

It feels strange to sit in it. To feel the shape of his body in the cushions around her. She sits back and positions her arms on the armrests, fingers curled over the ends, just like he sits. She wonders again what it’s like to be him, now - a National Treasure in the outside world and, in here, a man with everything he’s ever dreamt of. It must be nice. Good for him.

“Where did they go?” she asks, suddenly conscious of Mrs Hudson’s eyes on her. She hides her face in her cup and sips at her tea. “Did Sherlock insist on going to a murder scene?”

Mrs Hudson’s expression turns suddenly bleak. “John’s gone to the pub with Mike Stamford,” she says, “and Sherlock rushed off to Scotland Yard.”

“But it’s their anniversary!” Molly protests, only to feel instantly hot with embarrassment that she knows that.

“I know, dear. I’ve got it marked in their rent book. Twenty-ninth of January, 2011. Six years today.”

Molly frowns. “What happened? Did they have a row?”

“No. Nothing like that. In fact, they haven’t had a single domestic since John moved back.” Mrs Hudson bites her lip. “That’s not right, is it? Two people, living together, never arguing. It’s not normal.”

“Perhaps they’re just happy?” Molly says, but she knows something’s wrong. Sherlock loves to argue, and to point out how much cleverer he is than everyone else. And, every now and then, John enjoys cutting him down to size. He’s the only one who can. That’s what makes them so right together; why she and Sherlock would never have worked out. “They are happy, aren’t they?”

Mrs Hudson wrinkles her nose. “They’re not like me and my Frank, if that’s what you mean.”

“Sorry?”

“All over each other.”

Instantly, Molly’s head fills with pictures of Sherlock and John, in various stages of undress, and in various states of exertion; it takes her a while to register that Mrs Hudson said that they’re not like that, not that they are.

“Perhaps they’re just discreet about it?” she says, feeling uncomfortably warm.

“Sherlock? Discreet!” Mrs Hudson claps her hands together and laughs her tinkling laugh. “I don’t think so, dear, do you? No. They’re perfectly nice to one another - kind, even - but they’re using both bedrooms, if you know what I mean.”

Selfish joy flares in Molly’s chest but she tamps it down. Just because they haven’t, it doesn’t mean they never will - does it?

“Perhaps it’s too soon?” she offers. “After Mary?”

Mrs Hudson gives a little snort. “Sherlock’s birthday last year … after you took them out for cake … well, they certainly didn’t think it was too soon then.” She smiles and her eyes take on a faraway look. “Not by a long chalk. I didn’t like to say anything but they were making so much noise - and, well, at my age, I need my sleep. Had to bang on the door and tell them to tone it down a bit …” Her lips quiver. “I wish I hadn’t. I think I made them self-conscious … and they’ve never … you know … not again, after that. Not here. Not anywhere, as far as I can tell, because you always can, can’t you? Tell? If you know what to look for. Molly, I think I ruined it. Sherlock’s one chance to be happy.” She pulls out a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and sniffs loudly into it.

“It can’t have been that,” Molly says quickly, anxious to reassure her. “People who love one another don’t just … stop because someone tells them they’re being too loud.” Molly didn’t. Not with Jim, and not with Tom - and she didn’t even really much like either of them. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s a mystery,” Mrs Hudson agrees.

“What we need is a consulting detective,” Molly says, trying for funny.

“Or someone who really cares about one,” Mrs Hudson says, far more seriously. “I need your help, Molly. I need to find out what happened, and how we can put it right.”

“I’m not Sherlock, Mrs Hudson. I wouldn’t even know where to-”

“You need a side-kick,” Mrs Hudson says. “Someone with useful contacts. Gregory Lestrade likes you. Ask him.”

 

* * *

 

“Let me get this right: you asked me out for coffee to talk about Sherlock?” Greg has finally got it, and all the light in his eyes goes out.

It makes Molly feel awful. She knows Greg likes her, and she likes him, but … No, that’s silly. Whatever’s not happening with John at the moment, Sherlock’s taken. She really should move on.

“Not just Sherlock,” she says, attempting an encouraging smile.

Greg sighs. “Go on, then. What’s the matter?”

Molly looks around the crowded café. Nobody seems to be eavesdropping but even so, she lowers her voice.

“John,” she says in almost a whisper. “They’re not …” Don’t blush, she tells herself. Don’t blush. She swallows. “They’re sleeping in separate rooms.”

Greg nearly chokes on his coffee. “Bloody hell,” he splutters, “that’s so not my division. And it’s way beyond my pay grade.”

“But they’re your friends,” Molly pleads.

“Yeah. And I’d prefer keeping them that way. Which isn’t going to happen if I start investigating their sex lives, is it?”

Molly takes a deep breath. It’s time to get tough.

“What d’you think will happen if they split up?” she demands. “The same thing as last time, and the time before that. Sherlock will start using again. He’s already damaged all his internal organs, if it happens again … he might … “ Her inability to go on is genuine, as are the tears pricking at her eyes, but that doesn’t stop them getting her exactly what she intended: Greg’s mouth twists in agony, like a man who knows he’s going to have to walk barefoot through fire.

“How d’you know they’re not … you know?” he flounders.

“Mrs Hudson said.”

Greg picks up his coffee cup and takes a long, slow slurp. When he puts his cup down, a bit of the foam has stuck to his lip. He has nice lips. Nice eyes, too - even if now they looked worried. Worried and resigned.

“They were all right before Sherrinford,” Molly says, pushing home her advantage. “But afterwards … D’you know what happened there?”

Greg drinks more of his coffee, his brow furrowed. “They went through a lot,” he says. “I don’t know everything, but I know that. Even Mycroft was in a state when they first got out. And John nearly drowned. Thing like that, well, I reckon it can’t do much for the libido.”

Molly’s heart leaps. “Mycroft was there with them?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I need to talk to him.” She grabs her bag.

Greg eyes his half-drunk coffee and his untouched iced bun. “What, now?”

Molly buttons up her coat. “Yes,” she says. “Now.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft’s office comes as a surprise. Molly’s always imagined it would be in one of those grand Portland stone buildings on Whitehall, and probably in a dome at the very top with a God’s eye view over London. Instead, the security man Greg passed her over to is leading her down into a basement. A basement that looks very much like a wartime bunker. It smells of expensive aftershave and damp.

The security man knocks once on the door and opens it. It’s clear Molly’s expected and that makes her already tight nerves tenser still. He steps aside to let her in. She shivers, realizing she has to go in alone.

The room is cold and grey. A grid in the ceiling lets in light from the street above, scattering it in bright rhomboids and giving the already austere room a prison-like feel. Molly wonders if she’ll ever get out again. She’s challenging the man Sherlock calls ‘the British Government’; there have to be grave penalties for that.

Mycroft, immaculate in a three-piece, subtly pin-striped suit watches her squirm for a moment before rising smoothly from his chair. 

“Miss Hooper. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Molly looks down at her feet. He doesn’t mean it. Her presence isn’t a pleasure. He couldn’t care less about her. He’s being superior. Sarcastic. She sucks in a breath and says, “Sherlock.”

In the near-silent office, with its unforgiving surfaces in cold steel and concrete, her voice comes out too loud. She starts again, in almost a whisper.

“Sherlock …”

Mycroft smiles but although his lips curl, his eyes are weary. Bored, even.

“Yes. I imagined it might be. Please - take a seat.”

There’s only one spare chair, right up against the far end wall, and Molly already knows she’d feel stupid struggling to make her case from there. She’s about to tell him it’s okay, she’ll stand, when he strides over and moves it directly in front of his desk. Then he stands behind it, ready to position it under her, gallantly, as she sits. There’s no choice now; she drops into it. Having seated her to his liking, Mycroft walks over to a minimalist metal side-table thing, rattling with crystal decanters.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asks, removing the stopper from one of them.

Molly’s immediate reaction is to shake her head. She never drinks during the daytime, but then again, she’s about to demand that the all-powerful Mycroft Holmes comply with her wishes and she realizes she could do with something to boost her courage.

“Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

Mycroft pours rich, amber liquid into a heavy tumbler and carries it over. Molly’s fingers brush his as she takes it, and the contact makes her jump. His fingers are warmer than she would have expected; smoother, too.

Mycroft makes his way back to the seat behind his desk and sits down. He sighs.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no way to put this nicely: my brother misled you. He was under duress when he said he loved you. It was well-intentioned but, the fact is, he lied.”

Molly shakes her head so vehemently, she feels her ponytail whip from side to side. 

“He didn’t lie. He did. Does. Just not …” She shrugs. “You know.” She swallows down a mouthful of her drink. It tastes bitter. Of fire. “He told me.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “He did?”

“Yes. He told me about Sherrinford, and Eurus, and how, when he said ... that, he meant it but only as friends, because, well …” She shrugs. “ But he didn’t need to. I already knew.” She laughs awkwardly and drinks down some more of her brandy to shut herself up.

Mycroft looks into his own drink. “Ah …”

“That’s why I wanted to see you.”

Mycroft blinks. “My dear girl, I can’t help you. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway, and he certainly won’t change his mind on my rec-”

“I don’t want him to,” Molly cuts in. “I want him to be happy. With John. Because something’s wrong. They were fine, before, but now …”

“I don’t see what I can do about it,” Mycroft says crisply. “Matters of the heart are really not my area. I can’t-”

“You can get me into Sherrinford,” Molly says. “I want to see Eurus. I need to know what’s gone wrong.”

“Out of the question.”

“But she’s different now. Sherlock’s been going to see her. Playing the violin with her. She’s calmer. And if she isn’t, I’ll walk straight back out again, but I have to try.” She puts her glass down and leans forward. “We have to try. He’s been through so much. Please, Mr Holmes - Mycroft - he’s your brother.”

Mycroft stares are her in silence for a long, long time. She’d feel scared, if the muscles in his cheeks weren’t working quite so hard.

“As you say - Sherlock is my brother, just as Eurus is my sister. I should be the one-”

“You’re the one who locked her up,” Molly says, only to cringe at the harsh edge in her voice. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean-”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth turn down and he shakes his head. “No. You’re right. Regrettably, I locked up my own sister. Kept her isolated for years.”

“You did it because you had no choice,” Molly says, feeling desperately sorry for him. “But she doesn’t trust you. If anyone’s going to speak to her, it will have to be me.”

Mycroft laces his fingers together, the tips pressed so hard into the backs of his hands, it turns them white and he worries at his bottom lip with his teeth.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” he says at last. “But you will be closely monitored and, if the alarm sounds, you will quit her presence immediately, do you understand me? Immediately, Miss Hooper.”

“Call me Molly,” she says with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The journey is ghastly. Molly’s used to planes, not helicopters, and she hates the noise and the gravity defying swoops and turns almost as much as she hates the smell of diesel and the sensation of being so tightly strapped in. She ends up feeling so queasy, it’s almost a relief to touch down on Sherrinford, despite the dangers that lie ahead.

No-one from the facility speaks to her and, as all the grim-faced warders are wearing head-phones, none of them seems to hear what she says to them. She supposes they need to be constantly vigilant in such a place, housing such people; they can’t risk their attention being distracted by the babbling of a silly little no-one like her. Instead, they communicate by gesture. Straight ahead to the lift. Down two floors. Pressing the red button will raise the alarm.

No-one travels in the lift with her. The whole descent all she can hear is the frantic beating of her heart.

Too soon, she feels the tale-tell lurch of stopping and the metal doors hiss open. There’s a short, bare walkway to a wall of solid glass. MAINTAIN DISTANCE OF THREE FEET, the notice on it says and Molly is grateful for that. The dark-haired woman on the other side of it is dangerous, Molly has no illusions about that, and she feels sick to her stomach when the woman turns to stare at her with unblinking, pale blue eyes.

Eurus Holmes is beautiful, but pallid as a ghost, her skin and lips drained of colour, and there’s a terrible stillness to her, like a snake absorbing scents and vibrations, and ready to strike.

She looks Molly up and down and claps her hands in delight.

“Oh look! I’ve got a visitor. I love visitors but they allow me so few.”

Molly swallows. “I’m Mo-”

“I know who you are. I know almost everything. You’re Sherlock’s little mouse, Molly Hooper. Why are you here?” 

Molly opens her mouth to answer, but Eurus cuts her off.

“No! Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She prowls to the glass.

Molly shivers but stands her ground. “I’m here about Sherlock.”

Eurus rolls her eyes. 

“Well, obviously. Even Sherlock could have worked out that and he’s not even very clever. But what about him? Oh!” Her eyes light up. “Have you come to thank me? For making him tell you he loves you? You should - it’s the only way he’d ever say it - but it took only the slightest bit of thinking on my part. Tell him you’re in danger and your life turned on him getting you to say those three words.” She smiles wistfully. “It was really rather beautiful in the end, wasn’t it? Him so upset; you so upset. All that feeling! And I didn’t even need to kill anyone! Just let him think that I would.” She pauses. “You were very clever. Making him say it first. I liked that.” She smiles, but when she leans forward, her expression goes hard. “He didn’t mean it, of course.”

“He did.” Molly swallows, every muscle movement a painful lump in her throat. “He does.”

“Then why aren’t you happy? Why didn’t you skip in here, all sunshine and flowers and ponies? Do you like ponies? I do. I ate one once. Well, a bit of one. But I didn’t like the texture. Too stringy. Too much blood. They’re better when they’re running around. All in one piece.” She pauses again, narrowing her eyes. “Why aren’t you happy?”

Molly clenches her hands, fighting her emotions, trying not to give too much away. “I’m not here about me. I don’t matter. Sherlock does.”

Eurus paces back across the room, picks up her violin and plays something romantic. The Sleeping Beauty Waltz slides effortlessly into One Day My Prince Will Come but Eurus stops abruptly and casts Molly a speculative look. 

“I could make you matter. To Sherlock, I mean. I have this skill … All I have to do is talk to people and I can make them do anything I like. Anything at all. I’d like to see Sherlock in love with you. I’d like to see him desperate for you; eaten up with lust.” She pauses, obviously thinking. “I could talk to you, too. Stop you caring. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Him getting a taste of his own medicine for a change? Shall we do it? Get our own back on him for not noticing? Not caring enough to make an effort?”

Molly shakes her head. “No.”

“No?”

“It wouldn’t be real.”

Eurus shrugs. “Real? What’s real? Things change. I change them. Real is relative. Let me fix it for you.”

“Fix it?” Molly’s voice comes out higher than usual and slightly hysterical. “That wouldn’t be-”

“For a mouse, you’re very ungrateful. I offered to help. You could at least say thank you.” Eurus scrapes away angrily on her violin, drowning Molly out before she can speak but something’s at work in Molly’s brain.

“You said you just have to talk to people ..?”

“Too late! You were rude. You didn’t say thank you. I’m not helping you now.”

“But … If you were to help me, all you’d do is talk?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Do try to keep up. It’s not difficult. I’m beginning to see why my brother isn’t in love with you. You’re really quite stupid.”

“You talked to Sherlock …” Molly says slowly, thinking out loud.

“He thinks he’s so clever, but he’s not.”

“And you talked to John …”

“John? Oh, Sherlock’s little friend. No, not really. He was just … there. Doing his soldier thing, trying to be brave. It was quite funny, really.” She sighs. “It would have been much funnier if Sherlock had shot him. I so wanted him to.”

More wheels are turning in Molly’s head.

“What would you have done with him, if he had?”

“With John?” Eurus shrugs as if she hadn’t really thought about it before. “Dropped him into the ocean, I suppose, like I did with the other one. Or did you mean Sherlock? I’d have played him a lullaby to calm him down. Persuaded him to play with me.”

“The other one?”

Eurus’ eyes go wide and flick around her cell. “Other one? Did I say that? I meant the other ones. The Garridebs.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I suppose I could tell you but you wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

“Redbeard.”

“Sherlock’s dog? You dropped his dog into the ocean?” Molly’s horrified. She’s never understood cruelty to animals. People can make each other angry, but a dog? No, it’s too horrible. She tries to keep her expression neutral but she’s pretty sure she must look appalled.

Eurus is laughing. “Dog?”

“Redbeard.”

“Oh, you silly thing!” Eurus plays a snatch of How much is that doggy in the window, and a snatch of Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. “Redbeard wasn’t a dog. He was a boy.”

“A … boy?” Molly’s amazed she gets the question out, her throat is so dry.

“His name was Victor. Victor Trevor.” For a moment, Eurus’ face goes soft and wistful. “He was Sherlock’s friend.”

“And … you …” Molly can’t say it. She can scarcely believe it.

Eurus laughs. “I chained him up in the well. It was a game. It wasn’t my fault Sherlock was too stupid to work out the clues.”

“You killed him. A little boy!” The accusation spills out before Molly can stop it. She clamps a hand down over her mouth.

“Chained him up, killed him. Dog, boy. There was hardly any difference. What does it matter?”

“I-I think it matters a lot.”

“I don’t care what you think. Think? You scarcely think at all.”

“It matters,” Molly says - has to say, because it does. “You killed a little boy. Why would you do that?”

“I was a little girl,” Eurus says, and there’s a suggestion of a pout in the way she closes her mouth. “And Sherlock was my brother, not his.”

“Oh, God.” Molly feels sick again, and sad, desperately sad. She knows what it’s like to feel lonely. If it weren’t for the glass wall between them, she’d probably touch Eurus’ arm now, or try to give her a hug. She’s glad there’s a wall.

“You killed Victor because he was Sherlock’s friend and you wanted Sherlock all to yourself. You still want him all to yourself. That’s why you wanted him to shoot John. You want him to be like you, but he’s not.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

Eurus bares her teeth. “I said: shut up.”

“Is this you, talking to me? Trying to change me, like you changed Sherlock and John? Because it’s not working. I know what you did now. I see what you are.” Molly’s mouth is running away with her. She feels light-headed; terrified and fearless, all at once. There are some edges you have to jump over, and this is one.

“I could kill you,” Eurus snarls. “Right here, right now. I could leave this cell, seize you by your stupid throat and shove this bow down it until you choked to death. No-one would stop me. No-one would care.”

Molly’s heart hammers. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because you don’t matter.”

For a moment, everything is still as Molly’s lifelong truth settles around her. She feels it tug at her ankles, and fill up her lungs. Then she remembers, and smiles. 

“No,” she agrees. “Not in the way I want to, no. But I do matter. You showed me that, when you made him call me. Just because Sherlock loves John, it doesn’t mean he can’t love me too. Love isn't all or nothing. People aren’t like that. He visits you, doesn’t he? Plays duets with you?”

Eurus doesn’t speak, just stares. Molly takes a step closer.

“He loves you, Eurus. He lost you for a while - you lost each other - but he’s back now and he loves you. You’re his sister. His little sister.”

There’s something like panic in Eurus’ eyes. She backs away. “You can’t know-”

“I can.” Molly takes another step forward. “I can because he told me.”

Tears well in Eurus’ eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. You know I’m not.”

“He loves me?”

“Yes.” Molly gathers her strength. “But the question is: do you love him?”

Eurus frowns. “Love and hate. So difficult to differentiate. I wanted to hurt him. That’s hate, isn’t it? I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me.”

“That’s not hate. That’s love gone wrong. Do you still want to hurt him?”

Eurus considers. “Will he stop coming if I say ‘yes’?”

“No. He loves you.”

Closing her eyes, Eurus exhales a long, slow breath. “What do you want?” she asks, when she opens them again.

“I want you to put him back, like he was. Both of them. Him and John. Like they were before they came here.”

“Why?”

“Because they love each other. And they need each other. And they’ve spent so many years just …” Molly falters, lost for words. “Please, Eurus. Undo whatever you did, and let them love each other. Please.”

Eurus stares at her for a very long time.

“You can go now,” she says, positioning her violin under her chin. A deep breath, a slow glide of her bow, and she’s playing again, absorbed in the music.

Defeated, Molly turns towards the door but, as she reaches it, the playing stops.

“Tell Sherlock I need to see him,” Eurus says. “And tell him to bring John with him.”

Molly turns, hardly daring to believe her ears, and finds Eurus looking at her. Into her.

“Molly Hooper,” she says, like she’s tasting her name. “One thing.”

“Yes?”

“I can see why he loves you."

Molly blinks.

Eurus dismisses her with a wave of her hand. "You can go now.”

Molly smiles at her. “Thank you,” she says.


End file.
